


Love Is A Burning Thing

by FirstDraft



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jorleesi Fanwork Exchange, Romance, jorleesi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23171053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FirstDraft/pseuds/FirstDraft
Summary: Beyond The Wall... Daenerys comes face to face with something that's perhaps more frightening than the Dead and discovers more about herself than she ever thought possible.GoT s7 AU.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont & Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 25
Kudos: 55
Collections: Jorleesi Equinox Exchange -Spring 2020





	Love Is A Burning Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fanoftheknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanoftheknight/gifts).



> Love is a burning thing  
> And it makes a fiery ring  
> Bound by wild desire  
> I fell into a ring of fire
> 
> I fell into a burning ring of fire  
> I went down, down, down and the flames went higher  
> And it burns, burns, burns  
> The ring of fire, the ring of fire
> 
> I fell into a burning ring of fire  
> I went down, down, down and the flames went higher  
> And it burns, burns, burns  
> The ring of fire, the ring of fire
> 
> The taste of love is sweet  
> When hearts like ours meet  
> I fell for you like a child  
> Oh, but the fire went wild
> 
> I fell into a burning ring of fire  
> I went down, down, down and the flames went higher  
> And it burns, burns, burns  
> The ring of fire, the ring of fire
> 
> And it burns, burns, burns  
> The ring of fire, the ring of fire  
> The ring of fire, the ring of fire
> 
> \- as sung by Johnny Cash, lyrics by Anita Carter

How could noise turn to silence so quickly? 

How could Daenerys have seen so much death and still be surprised by the speed at which light turned to dark?

Viserion’s presence on the edge of her consciousness hadn’t been so noticeable until it was no longer there. 

Ice and rock groaned and broke. Daenerys’ heart cracked.

“GO!” Jon’s voice exploded like thunder behind her. “GO NOW!”

Daenerys turned, in time to see the King of the Dead heft what looked like a spear, ice blue when it should have been steel grey. In a moment she knew what had happened to Viserion, and what might happen next. Without a word she urged Drogon to take flight - in two or three beatings of his wings they were all air-born, surging towards the safety of the clouds - 

Behind her she heard Jorah shout - even as Drogon abruptly banked left, from the corner of her eye she saw Jorah’s arm strike out - when shards of ice rained down on her, she realised he had somehow smashed the ice spear before it could hit her.

And in doing so he had released his grip on Drogon and overreached himself. She turned to grab him as he tumbled over the side of Drogon’s neck but he slipped through her fingers - Tormund was next to catch him. The Wildling grunted and cried out with effort but in another instant - as brief and as ever-lasting as Viserion’s death - Jorah was gone into swirling snow.

Daenerys screamed his name. Drogon dived and turned in response - but instead of finding the ground again, a wall of jagged rocks suddenly loomed through the murk. Drogon roared, the men yelled - with his wings fanned out to stop his flight, he struck out at the cliff with his long legs, sending himself and his passengers into another dive - but somehow he kept out of a spin and in a few moments he had staggered into a landing at the bottom of what looked like some kind of ravine. 

The man called the Hound was swearing and cursing about both Daenerys and Drogon but she paid him no mind. She was leaning forward to get Drogon back up when a strong, trembling hand grabbed her arm.

“We can’t!” Tormund shouted. “We can’t go back for him! Jon’s gone, too, but we can’t go back - we have to get that thing back -”

The cold, perhaps, would be to thank for what Daenerys did **_not_ ** do next. Her first thought was to fly again without these men who did not and could not understand, and Drogon shifted under her, coiling, ready to throw them all off if she so wished. Somehow her rage cooled just enough to remember what she had to do. More carefully, with soft words of encouragement to Drogon still unspoken, they took off again. Any further screaming or swearing from the men could not be heard over the wind filling her ears with the speed of Drogon’s flight. It did not take long for her to spot a landmark she recognised and Drogon landed again. 

Before Tormund or anyone else could utter a word of protest, she turned to them. “You will go on foot until I have found Ser Jorah, or you can wait for me. Your choice.”

The Hound, for once, did not complain. He was the first off Drogon, dragging the Wight down with him. 

The flight back to Jorah felt painfully long, the feeling made worse by the wind now blowing against them, waves of snow swirling angrily around her. The Night King was said to bring winter with him: did he really control the weather? Could he see her in the sky right now?

Tears sprang in her eyes, making them sting. How could she ever hope to find Jorah in this sea of ice? Had it buried him already?

No. _NO_.

She and Jorah had survived the burning of the Red Waste. They would survive the flaying of the White one. Drogon, as ever hearing her thoughts, let flow a streak of fire. Now, even if only briefly, the dreary grey lit up around and below them. A few more wing strokes, and Daenerys thought she recognised where they were. Drogon dipped towards the ground in figures of eight, spouts of fire revealing rock mounts, steep inclines and streams flying through cracks of stone.

“THERE!” she shouted, finally spotting a dark man-shape in the snow at the bottom of a slope. 

Drogon dropped to the ground, landing with precision rather than poise, sending a shudder up his body that even Daenerys could feel. She slipped off him and stumbled down to the body: it was Jorah. Deathly pale but breathing… she thought.

“Jorah! Jorah, can you hear me?” She shook him; there was no response. “This is your queen, Ser Jorah. You need to open your eyes!”

She had a temper: she had come to accept that about herself over the years, as her impatience grew with the evil she saw in the world. She’d been able to check her anger and her fear long enough to lead the rest of the Company to relative safety before returning here but it hadn’t helped her to notice the flaw in her plan: how to get Jorah onto Drogon. Daenerys stood and tried to pull him up the slope, to no avail. Looking down to where the slope led, it seemed to come to some kind of edge. She had no idea what lay below it and didn’t think that it would be safe trying to find out. Drogon would have to carry him in his claws. 

She started to push herself back up towards Drogon, who shifted on his haunches, perhaps preparing himself for the task ahead - and the world moved under his feet. She stared at Drogon, dumbfounded, for too long before she realised the layers of snow she stood on had come loose from the rocks and were sliding like a rug pulled by invisible hands.

Drogon shrieked, tried to get a purchase again - instead he only pushed the slabs of ice downwards faster than the natural pull of things ever could. Daenerys spun around and threw herself over Jorah, as though she could stop the weight of the mountain from taking him away from her. There was an extraordinary and deep rumble, not unlike a dragon’s roar, and then the edge she’d wanted to avoid came up to meet her and claimed them both.

***

The heat was blissful but short-lived. Now it was gone, the cold stabbed at her deeper than ever before. Daenerys felt wrenched out of unconsciousness and she opened her eyes with a gasp. Through a whirl of air and white powder, she saw Drogon in front of her, and the red glow of fire in his throat.

“Drogon - WAIT -” she shouted, although she could barely hear her own words. It was just as well that he did not need to hear words. She pulled herself out of the pile of snow that her lower body was still trapped in; as she did so, she found Jorah behind her, miraculously uncovered by Drogon’s fire but not burnt. Behind him, smoke was rushing upwards through cracks in the rock. Drogon was clever, she knew that, but she suspected it was luck that he had hit stone rather than the pile of snow they’d found themselves under. His next pass, on the other hand, would probably have left nothing of Jorah behind but bones and dragonglass. The grip of the snow on her was like nothing she had ever known, even as it melted from the heat behind them, so it took her a few minutes to crawl out. Once freed, she crawled over to Jorah, removing her gloves once more to feel for his pulse. His skin was cold but then again everything was right now. She looked around, trying to gather her bearings but it was hard to see anything through the flurry of white powder constantly whipped into her face by Drogon’s wings. He was beating them in short, sharp strokes, trying to hover by their side. 

Again Daenerys struggled to decide whether to look for the edge or not. Was there any point? If Drogon could have landed safely and within reach, he would have done so already. But it could simply be that the space below them was too small for him to do so, rather than too far down. She owed it to Jorah and herself to make sure. She slowly crawled forward - and almost immediately found what she had been looking for. She was out of breath already but her heart nearly fell out of her mouth when the arm she’d been reaching forward with grasped at thin air. Even more slowly she risked a glance over the edge and saw… nothing. The drop below them was into a mass of white and grey; fog and flurries hid everything under a thick blanket that looked close enough to touch but could never be reached.

“Fuck. _Fuck_ **.** ”

She pushed herself back, until she was resting back against Jorah’s side. There was groaning and grinding coming from all around them, cutting through the whistling of the snow storm. Petulantly, Daenerys hoped the mountain was feeling the pain of Drogon’s fire. Even as she enjoyed the thought, it was pushed aside by another. His fire might have saved them but it could also have weakened the rock around them. If it gave way -

Now panic threatened to take hold of her. She instinctively turned towards Jorah, almost calling his name, and that was all it took to calm her again: the sight of him, looking lifeless from the cold. 

_Jorah needs you, Daenerys. You cannot fail him. Not now, not ever._

Looking back at Jorah, she saw something dark on the rock face that she now realised was some kind of crevasse - and possible shelter. She climbed carefully over Jorah’s body, hoping she wasn’t crushing any broken bones he might have, and found it to be better than a crevasse: it was an actual cave, deep enough to allow her to crawl into up to her ankles. She didn’t dare go any deeper without any light so she turned to Drogon. He fired a couple of fireballs into the opening, and now she saw that it was not just mercifully empty but big enough for her to stand in, and definitely big enough to protect them from the elements. Now, thanks to Drogon’s fire, the roof and walls were hot and would keep them warm for a while.

“Drogon!” Daenerys called again. “ _You must go. You must find the Men, and help them. Then you come back with help_ _._ ”

He did not want to go. He wanted to stay, to perch on the edge they had slipped off, and wait.

_“_ _Wait for what?”_ she asked. “ _We do not know how long this will last. We are safe here. Come back when you can help._ ”

_I will not lose you, too_ , went the unspoken thought.

Drogon was a huge beast but the blizzard swallowed him whole in a couple of wing beats: he vanished above Daenerys almost immediately.

“Each man… from Bear Island… Fights With… The strength of ten mainlanders,” Daenerys muttered through gritted teeth as she pulled Jorah inside the cave. “You never said… they weighed about the same, too, Ser Jorah.”

If it had been up to her, she would have got them both as deep into the cave as it was possible to go, but she was unwilling to be in complete darkness. When she was satisfied that she could just about see Jorah with the light that fell into their shelter, she stopped pulling. It was blissfully warm inside, although she had no idea how long it would stay that way, but she felt able to loosen her coat and to do the same to Jorah so she could check him for injuries. There was a moment when she struggled to look at his face, afraid of what she might find there - that slackness of skin that death so often left behind. And she knew Jorah’s lean, taut face too well: there was no fat there to hide anything. Removing her gloves, she gently placed her fingers on his lips and felt the warmth of his breath. Skimming his cheeks, she smiled at the feel of his prickles. Beards were all well and good, but there was something to Jorah’s stubble that she had always loved. Perhaps it spoke of his lack of vanity, or of their days wandering with the Dothraki hordes. Or perhaps it simply made him that little more handsome…

Daenerys shook her head. It was the strangest thing: she had spent more time thinking about Jorah since he had returned than when he had been gone. In a way it wasn’t surprising. She had learned not to think of days gone by, good or bad; it made it impossible to see the present or to think of the future. So she had put Jorah out of her mind, except for those times when she had been too tired to keep him there. He would return to her then, refusing to be denied as he always did, and since there was no one to see, no one to question her actions, she would let him come.Sometimes to comfort her, but most often to rage at him. Rage at him for not being there. Rage at him for making her send him away. When the rage was spent, she would cry and pray for him. The sleep that would follow was always black and heavy and blissful. So why did his return leave her so unsettled?

She sighed. She realised that she had never quite believed she would ever see him again. Was it guilt, then? Guilt for not having quite as much faith in him as she had claimed when she had sent him to find a cure? No, that wasn’t quite right. 

_Disbelief_.

That was the definition of lacking in faith. She hadn’t been able to truly believe he would return and now she still couldn’t quite believe it.

She stroked his forehead. “I’m sorry, Jorah,” she murmured. “I think I have rather let you down.”

“How… how, Khaleesi?”

Daenerys started. But she wasn’t dreaming: in the semi-darkness, two bright blue eyes were looking at her. “Jorah! Thank the Gods! Are you hurt?” He blinked, lying motionless for a moment or two longer before trying to roll over. His grunting told her all she needed to know. “You _are_ hurt! Don’t move -” She stopped, feeling stupid for making the suggestion when he had been almost incessantly moved ever since he had fallen off Drogon.

Jorah did as he was told, at least until he had got his breath back. Then, more carefully, he pushed himself off the ground until he was sitting up next to her. He groaned then smiled.

“You don’t smile often enough, Ser, but this is an odd moment to pick.”

“Pain means you’re alive. It also means I haven’t broken my spine.” He moved his legs and feet a little to show her. 

“Where is the pain, exactly?”

“Everywhere,” Jorah replied. “Mostly in my ribs.” His smile faded, and then suddenly he was rooting around his waist, stopping when his hand gripped his daggers. “Where are we? What happened?” 

“You fell off Drogon. You saved my life, _again_.”

He frowned. “And after that?”

Something about his tone made her hesitate. “We came back for you.” She explained how Drogon’s landing had dislodged the snow and everything after that. He was quiet for a long time - not unusual for Jorah - but he was not looking at her, either. “Drogon will return soon, and with help. We are safe here for now.”

“He still won’t be able to land on that ledge long enough for us to climb on.”

“He won’t be alone -”

“No one is going to go anywhere near Drogon, Your Grace. And if the Dead find him -” Jorah trailed off.

She knew that. She knew all of that. What she didn’t know was why Jorah seemed upset with her, while she was still cold and barely over the shock of thinking he had died. “What else can we do, Jorah?” she snapped. “I made a mistake, I know I did - “

“How could you, Khaleesi?”

“I had no idea whether you were alive or dead - I did not have time to think - what would you have done if it had been me?”

“It is **_not_** the same - you are the **_Queen_**! It’s my duty to protect you, and it is **_yours_** to be safe from harm. You should not have returned for _me_.”

It was not her plan, or lack thereof, that he was upset about. It was that she had returned for him at all. _I_ _am never leaving you behind again_ , came the thought instantly, almost knocking the breath out of her. **_A_** _nd do not ever ask me to. Don’t you know I never could?_

“I _am_ the Queen, and I will do as I please!” she barked back instead. 

A freezing breeze whistled into the cave, biting at the exposed skin on her face. The stones and rocks around them were warm but it couldn’t shelter them from that. Daenerys settled back down to an upright position like Jorah’s, so as much of her body was in touch with a heated surface.

“You’re hurt,” Jorah said eventually, a familiar concern in his voice. He pointed at her face; she could feel how he had stopped himself from touching her. She removed her gloves and ran her fingers over her cheeks. They came back smeared with dried blood.

“Splinters from the Night King’s spear, I think,” she reassured him. “It’s nothing.” 

He removed his gloves, too, then searched for something in the pockets of his coat. “Here,” he said, presenting her with two dark strips of dried meat. “You should eat these.”

“I will, if you can show me you have enough for the both of us. You are injured, I am not,” she cut him off before he could protest. With a sigh he showed her two more strips, and they both set to chew on them in silence.

“That… is not horse meat,” she said with a grimace.

“It is not,” Jorah agreed, looking as though he was enjoying it about as much as she did. “I have been eating it for days and I have not dared to ask Tormund what it is. It’s nothing like the kind of dried meat we had on Bear Island.”

Bear Island. His home. What he had been praying for these last two decades. They had spoken so much about Westeros over the years but very little about Bear Island itself. She had wanted to ask him so many questions about the place but knew his memories of it were painful and she hadn’t wanted to hurt him, so she had told herself she would discover it at Jorah’s side when she gifted it back to him. It was one of her most cherished hopes. 

Unsure where the impulse came from now, Daenerys asked, “Is it like this on Bear Island?”

Jorah looked towards the cave’s opening and its yawning maelstrom of grey and white. “Yes and no.” 

Before he could say more, he started to cough - and the cough brought enough pain to him that she saw him grow pale in the gloom. He contorted back into the rock, one arm stretched taut by his side as he wheezed into his other hand. More frightening to Daenerys was the quickening rise and fall of his chest: he was suddenly struggling to breathe.

“Jorah - Jorah, look at me -” When he didn’t, or couldn’t, she made him, gently but firmly pulling his face around towards her. She took his nearest hand in her own free one, holding it to her chest, and caught his eyes with hers. 

“Look at me - Count with me, Jorah. Remember? You taught me that. When the wise women could do nothing.”

On a dusty afternoon, long ago, in the Great Grass Sea, a Dothraki woman had gone into labour. Daenerys had not been able to stay away - that was going to be her soon enough, and she had needed - wanted - to know what to expect. Jorah had been one of the few men there, Drogo and the rest of the men out on a hunt. None of the more experienced women that day were able to calm the labouring mother and she had been horrified by the woman’s struggle, had begged Jorah to do something - anything.

She had not had to ask twice, no matter his reluctance. He had knelt by the woman and grasped her hand and in faltering Dothraki had told her to count the clouds and breathe every time she counted one. Perhaps it was the shock of a man by her side, and an _Andal_ at that, or the counting really did work - but the woman had calmed, her breathing had slowed - and less than an hour later, she had given birth to a healthy baby girl. Daenerys had never told Jorah that the woman’s mother had blamed his intervention for the baby being female. 

“ _At_ ,” she started, stroking his cheek. “ _Akat_ ... _sen_ ... _tor… mek…_ ” She watched the fear leave his eyes, to be replaced by surprise and wonder. She moved her hand from his face to his chest, squeezing the fingers she was holding in her other hand so he knew she was not really letting him go. His heart’s thumping could be felt even through the layers of leather and wool; it seemed to her that it was going at the same speed as hers. 

“ _Zhinda_ ,” she continued, “ _Feck… Ori...Qazat…_ ”

“ _Thi_ ,” he croaked. Daenerys nodded. Then, when his breathing had finally returned to something approximating normal, he added with a rasp, “What… what is it?”

“What is what?”

“The baby. Boy or girl?”

He did remember. Daenerys burst out laughing. “A bear cub, Ser. Congratulations.” 

She saw him smile and for a moment she was happier than she had any reason to be, trapped as they were in the land of the Dead. But it didn’t last. His injuries were clearly worse than broken ribs. She was no Maester but she had heard the crackling in his breath in other men before and it signalled nothing good. 

Jorah was staring at her in that new way of his: warmly, affectionately, yet guarded, too. It troubled her in ways she didn’t understand. It wasn’t discomfort or embarrassment. It was… something else. She let go of his hand, gently placing it on his waist.

“There’s only death here,” he suddenly said. “On Bear Island, we’ve known terrible winters. The kind that freezes waterfalls, or the very air in your lungs. But spring always comes, even if later some years than others. And there are the trees - pine trees, fir trees - that never shed their leaves. When the storm moves on and you can move enough snow to leave your home, it’s as though the world is asleep. It’s peaceful. It’s beautiful.” He indicated the storm outside. “That’s not sleep. That’s death.”

Daenerys nodded. “I don’t know what it is. I had never even seen snow until today and still I feel… I _know_ there is something else here. Or perhaps nothing at all. Like life itself is gone.” She rubbed her hands together, watched her breath steam up in front of her. “I am starting to sound like a priestess of Qarth.”

“You are a magical being, Khaleesi,” Jorah replied. “And there is magic here, even if it’s dark and foul. I’m not surprised you can sense it.”

A magical being? Daenerys felt a flush of heat rush to her cheeks. He had said it as a fact, not as a compliment - and even if he had meant it that way, had she not already heard all the praises men could bestow on a woman? Some of it from Jorah himself? And now she was blushing like a maid.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” he muttered, mistaking her silence for upset. “I did not mean to offend you -”

“No!” she said, too quickly. “You could never offend me, Jorah. And if anyone has earned the right to speak freely to me, it’s you.”

"I **_have_** offended you. But I can promise it will never happen again -”

She shook her head. “We’ve had our misunderstandings. You’ve hurt me.” She paused. “But I have hurt you, too. And so perhaps it’s my turn to apologise.”

Jorah frowned and she knew what he was going to say before he had the words out - “It was different, Khaleesi -”

“Don’t say it was different -” 

They fell into a heavy silence. She raised her knees and rested her forehead on them. She knew why he was saying that. It was different because he was in love with her and she wasn’t in love with him. She wished he had never said anything. And **_then_** it would have all stayed the same between them.

After what seemed like a long while, he started to cough again - this time he waved off her attempt to help and she had to yank at his arm to check his hand for blood. At least there was none. Most of the light was gone now. Jorah was more like a shape than a person, his skin far too white in the blanketing darkness. 

“I will see you home soon, Jorah,” she blurted out, scared for him and tired of the silence, of having him so close and so far away all at once. “And then you can show me the fir trees and the frozen waterfalls.”

“I will gladly do so, but you don’t need to fret over me. I **_am_** home.”

It was selfish, deeply selfish, but Daenerys’ heart skipped a beat at his words. She searched for his eyes in the gloom and found two warm and bright points. She nodded but she wasn’t sure whether he could see her so she kept his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. It was a little clammy.

Then, just as she realised that something was bothering her about his words, she knew what it was. She sat on her haunches, felt for his chest, his neck, wondering if she had missed an injury she should have been trying to treat. “I know that tone of voice, Jorah. You’re saying goodbye to me.”

“I will never willingly leave you, Khaleesi. But I feel cold. The kind of cold that comes from the inside.”

“No. It’s just the cave. It’s getting cold again. Even Drogon’s fire can only do so much in this place.” Daenerys picked up his arm closest to her and raised it - he groaned with pain - and then she snuggled her against his side, embracing him closely rather than tightly, her head on his chest just below his chin. “We can keep each other warm.”

When he didn’t move, she moved his arm so it was resting around her waist. She heard his sharp intake of breath, the slight quickening of his heartbeat - and the selfish thoughts came again. 

“We have to stay awake,” he murmured over the top of her braids.

“Then you had better keep talking.”

“That may be beyond my oath, Your Grace.”

Daenerys giggled. “Tyrion will never believe me when I tell him how funny you are.” Jorah grunted. “He said that you punched him in the face once. Is that true?”

“Aye.”

“Now I know him well, I don’t even need to ask why.” He chuckled, and it gave her head a little bump where it rested against him. “I’ve wanted to punch him several times recently. But Missandei says it’s not a queenly thing to do.”

“It is not.”

“Will you punch him for me when we return to Dragonstone?”

“I serve at your command, my Queen.”

“Will you swear to it?”

“I am already… sworn to obey you.” 

“Swear it. Swear that you will punch Tyrion Lannister in the face when we return to Dragonstone.”

He didn’t respond for a moment, which was a very Jorah thing to do. He never made promises he didn’t think he could keep, even on the most trivial of things. He was that kind of man. It didn’t matter that she’d had good reasons to banish him, she thought: she had been stupid to do so.

“I swear it.”

“There,” she whispered. “Now you cannot say goodbye.”

***

_She’s at Dragonstone. The beach where she first arrived. The cliffs above her are black and crooked, like teeth and claws. She looks around, wondering how she got there and why she is alone, until she spots him, walking away towards the castle itself, up that long path. She would recognise that gait anywhere: long, loping strides, and surprisingly graceful._

_“Jorah!”_

_He doesn’t pause. She calls his name more loudly, to no avail. She starts running after him._ This is not very queenly, either, _she thinks, not sure where the thought came from. She runs as fast as she can, fast enough that she thinks she might catch up with him before he reaches the top - but she doesn’t, and he disappears around the last turn._

_Daenerys practically throws herself around that corner -_

_And she is no longer at Dragonstone. She is somewhere she has never been before but she knows it anyway: Bear Island. Hills and mountains rise all around her, covered in a blanket of shimmering snow. The sun is shining and the world does look asleep: there is a quiet unlike any she has ever heard. Tall, dark trees dot the hillsides, and there is the smell of wood burning._

_Jorah is still walking away from her, down a stony path dug up by many feet over many years. She begins to run after him, calling his name with increasing desperation, because he would never willingly walk away from her - the thought brought the memory of a memory - had she actually heard him say the words?_

_Is she asleep? Is this a dream?_

_It doesn’t matter. Her dreams have become reality before. And this is not a reality she can accept._

_Suddenly a large wooden and stony keep looms over them both, cutting off the sunlight. It’s cold without the sun. He is almost at a door. She has almost caught up with him._

_He is at the door. He opens it - she reaches out for him - and grabs at empty air. The door is slammed shut, with enough force to send her staggering backwards._

_The door is a luminous red._

***

Daenerys woke up with a start, tears streaming down her face. The dark was a deep, clean blue, and the quiet absolute. Slowly she turned back to look outside: the storm was gone, and she thought she could see a sprinkle of stars; there was more light to see by now than when it had been day. She shook with cold and pressed herself closer against Jorah - he was here, he hadn’t left her - it _had_ been just a dream - 

With a feeling of dread she disentangled herself from him - sitting on his lap she grabbed his face and called his name. His skin felt like ice.

_“_ Jorah! Jorah! Wake up!” She shook him a few times but her arms were numb. “JORAH!”

“Kha… “

It was more like a sigh than a whisper but she heard it. “Jorah?”

“I… m… sorry…”

“NO. You SWORE. I command you - “

“I’m... glad I got to see you… return home,” he continued. He was slurring with exhaustion and the slide into a long sleep. 

Daenerys stared at him, dumbfounded, wondering what he could possibly be talking about.

_Dragonstone._ He meant Dragonstone. Her birthplace, her birthright. 

“Dragonstone is _not_ my home,” she said, fiercely. 

The words had come before the thought. She had almost shouted them and they filled the air for a moment, echoing and shattering against the stone walls. 

Jorah’s eyes had not left hers. She felt them searching her face, wide with surprise, a spark of something she couldn’t put a name to. Or was it simply her own reflection?

“I have flints in my pockets,” Jorah groaned. “You must try to make a fire.”

“I have nothing to burn -”

“You will have the wool in my coat, in my clothes. You will have me.”

“Never - “

“Whether you burn me here, or somewhere else, it makes no difference. Except that here, I can still keep you alive.”

“You didn’t give up when you had Grey Scale. Why are you giving up now?”

He looked away, so she pulled his face back towards her. “It’s not about giving up, Khaleesi. And there was a point, when I was at the Citadel, when the choice was beyond mine to make. It was... only good fortune that saved me, when one Maester there saw me... and was willing to do what no one else would.”

Do what no one else would? What could that possibly mean? Daenerys lost her chance to ask when Jorah began to cough again. It left him gasping for breath and struggling to talk. 

“Don’t speak - “

He shook his head. “I would never give up on you - it’s this place -”

“I know,” she cut him off quickly. “I know - I’m sorry - but don’t you see? I can’t give up on you, either. You cannot ask me to do that.” 

There was that look on his face that she knew well by now.

“It’s not different, my bear,” Daenerys said. “It’s not different. I don’t care what I am, and what you are -”

She heard herself say the words but it was as though someone else was saying them. No, it wasn’t different. Because it was the same. The same for her, as it was for Jorah. Because Jorah loved her, and she loved him, too.

“Jorah -”

It was too late: his eyes had fallen shut, and his head lolled heavily against her hands. Bursting into tears, she tilted her face towards him and kissed him, desperate to breathe life into him. Tears flowing over her cheeks in an icy stream, she pulled Jorah’s upper body to her, trying to disappear into an embrace he could not give her - and felt the faint, warm air from his mouth again: he had lost consciousness but he was not dead. 

_It’s this place_. That’s what Jorah had said. And she felt it more than ever. 

Hope was often compared to a flame, to an eternal fire. Jorah had called her a magical being: when she thought upon her powers, she always thought of her dragons first but now she remembered that her powers did not come from them, and that they came from _her_. How long had it taken for her to realise that her dreams of dragons were not dreams but visions of what could be? Until she had lost everything she had come to cherish. 

So it was again now, because losing Jorah would mean losing everything. She had said it herself: Dragonstone was not her home. If he had asked her what was, she would have known there and then and would have been able to tell him.

_You are my home, Jorah Mormont._

Daenerys had never spoken of what she had seen in the fire through which she had birthed her children. The truth was, she had understood almost nothing of what she had seen in the flames, or forgotten most of it. She had _been_ **t** he fire.

Perhaps it wasn’t her visions that had given her hope all those years ago. Perhaps it was the touch of death on her defiant soul: having seen how life could be, that love was possible, she was never going to let it go again. And now that she had found home at last, Daenerys was not going to let that go again, either. 

She felt peace wash over her for the first time in years. Doubt, which had become almost a constant companion since she had arrived in Westeros, faded like a shadow under the sun. She moved a little way from Jorah, because she had never done this before and had no idea what would be left of her as she did. She closed her eyes, sat back on her haunches and thought of the man she loved. It was not difficult to find the fire, now that it had a name and a face.

It came suddenly, from somewhere too deep to be from her body alone. It surged through her limbs at the speed of a thousand wild horses: love and hope and life made tangible. The cold, freezing air around her shattered like a pane of glass. Even before she opened her eyes, Daenerys knew the darkness had retreated.

She took a deep breath. The heat felt blissful and she understood what Jorah meant when he had talked about the cold coming from the inside - because this wasn’t the heat of Essos. It was **_hers_ ** **.**

She looked down at the flames burning around her hands and wrists, at the way they danced when she moved her fingers. She had been told she was beautiful so often that it had lost its meaning but she had never thought she was _capable_ of beauty. She placed her palms upon the rocky floor, and soon tendrils of yellow and red snaked across the stone, encircling Jorah in a ring of fire. 

Behind her, a sudden screech and clamour came rolling up the mountainside. From the corner of her eye, she could sense the stars disappearing again behind roiling clouds. A burst of snow whooshed inside the cave, hissing as it melted around her. 

_I was born in a storm_ , she thought. _You will have to do better than that_.

_***_

The cold left Jorah’s body slowly. In dreams, he watched snow melt under a blazing sun, sparkling with gold and silver as it dripped from trees and roofs. It was the heat of the sun that first made him realise he had to be dreaming, because the spring suns he remembered from his youth were pale, their light stretched thinly across cloudless skies. But this sun above him burned like the height of summer. He felt himself take a breath - more of a gasp, really, as if he was breaking through the surface after a long time underwater. His limbs were stiff, as though they had lain still and asleep for a long time.

_Daenerys_.

Where was she? Why was he not with her? 

“Daenerys!” His own voice woke him up. “Daenerys!” he called again, even as he was barely conscious enough to know who or what she was, aside from the most precious thing in the world. 

Jorah blinked, blinded by more light - not the sun, he understood after a moment, but a fire surrounding him that somehow he did not fear. Behind the low flickering flames, he saw Daenerys open her eyes and look at him with a smile more luminous than anything he had ever seen in the sky. 

“Jorah?”

Her name died in his throat before he could say it a third time. “Khaleesi - what..? How…?”

Jorah was quite sure that the last memory he would ever lose would be the sight of her rising out of a pile of ash with three dragons clinging to her, but still he gasped at the sight of her hands on fire. The flames curved and leaped around her wrists and fingers like living things.

The fire that had been surrounding him suddenly died, then faded from Daenerys’ hands. She frowned and teetered forward - Jorah barely had the time to catch her before she hit the floor. Now he could see that some of her clothing had burnt away: almost all of her sleeves and a fair amount around her chest, leaving her soot-covered skin exposed. He brought her to rest in the crook of his arms and against his chest to keep her warm but she felt almost unbearably hot in a way that simply should not have been possible. But then there was much of the impossible about Daenerys Targaryen.

“Khaleesi? What did you do? What’s wrong?”

She raised her face to look at him, her smile more tired now. She looked pale and drawn. “I don’t know except that it kept you alive. And so there is nothing wrong.”

There was a limpness and lightness to her body that he didn’t like. “What do you need? What can I do?”

She sighed. “Just… hold me. So I know this isn’t a dream.” 

“Are **_you_ ** saying goodbye to me now, Khaleesi?” he croaked, struggling to keep both his anger and tears in check.

“I will never willingly leave you, Jorah,” Daenerys replied, with an odd look in her eyes that made him feel very young. “I’m… tired, that’s all.”

“You need to stay awake -” She slumped in his arms. Jorah stared at her for a moment, utterly bewildered - and then, from the blackest, deepest part of his heart, he let out a roar of grief and rage -

The mountain around him shuddered and cracked. Boulders tumbled and leaped over the opening of the cave - and the roar was not his alone -

A great shadow abruptly fell across what he could see of the dawn and then Drogon was there, filling the entire entrance. Jorah watched him try to perch on the ledge, only to find it was too small and weak for him: it broke under his weight and the beast disappeared briefly into whatever abyss was below.

When he reappeared, head first above the edge of what was left, Jorah had an idea.

***

It was two days before she opened her eyes again. The flight back to Castle Black through freezing mist seemed to take an age in itself, although Jorah was grateful that it seemed to cool Daenerys down from burning to merely very hot. Jon’s return barely registered with him when he was told the news, though he was glad of it (guiltily, his first thought was for Longclaw). Beric tried to ask him what had happened both to him and Daenerys, wondering knowingly at his lack of injuries, but Jorah wasn’t about to share any details of her fire magic. It would be her choice to do so, and he was mistrustful of how people would react when they found out. She hadn’t just kept him alive: she had healed him.

Jorah did not step outside for the first day after their return to Castle Black; the only way he knew that a day had gone by was because enough time had gone by for him to fall asleep by her bedside, finally overcome with exhaustion. A boy who had brought him something to eat had confirmed it.

Daenerys had told him Dragonstone wasn’t her home. Yet it seemed the best place for her to be - better than Castle Black at any rate, and they had to start making their way south with the Wight they had captured at such high costs. Being aboard her own ship also meant no questions when Jorah settled himself in her cabin to continue to tend to her. Or at least the questions, heavy in Jon Snow’s eyes when they met on deck, remained unasked. 

_“Who else would you have take care of your Queen, boy?”_ he thought angrily, more than once. _“What would give you the right to decide?”_ he had thought next, not bothering to tamper down the feeling of jealousy and suspicion it was unbecoming of him to feel.

But Jorah was in no mood to explain himself, or that he wished that somehow Daenerys had brought Missandei north with her so he would not have to spend hours contemplating how weak and small she looked. Mostly his duties involved dripping water into her mouth to keep her hydrated, sometimes mixed with broth to get something more into her, but it felt far from enough. The Maester at Castle Black had been useless, although Jorah could hardly blame him for not knowing how to deal with the after-effects of magical spontaneous human combustion. Still he wondered where the one named Samwell might be. 

Then, finally, miraculously, Daenerys stirred and was awake. Parched and weak, she could not speak much but her smile was enough for him. He helped her to sit up and drink more water and broth. He was astonished to find that she was quickly able to hold the bowl herself, and happier than he could express when she asked for more to eat. He left her bedside to quickly ask her Unsullied outside the door to fetch more substantial soup. 

When he turned back, she asked how they had escaped from the cave.

“I put you over my shoulders and climbed on Drogon’s head.”

She almost spat out a spoonful of broth. “You climbed on Drogon’s head?”

“He couldn’t land where we were. So I asked him to lay his head at the opening, and I climbed on.”

“That’s incredible, Jorah.”

“I don’t think he has forgiven me for the indignity.”

Daenerys shook her head. “He could understand you. He obeyed you. Jorah, you’ve known them all since they were first born. You know this does not happen every day.”

“He understood it was the only way to keep you safe, Khaleesi. I won’t be requesting a ride any time soon.” Jorah cleared his throat. “I am so sorry, Khaleesi. About Viserion.” Her expression clouded over, and she put her bowl down on her lap. “I’m sorry,” he said again, this time for mentioning it. Yet he needed to tell her, because she had to know she did not have to grieve him alone. 

“I felt it, Jorah,” she murmured, staring at nothing. “I feel it still.”

“You birthed him,” Jorah said. “You were his mother.”

Daenerys looked at him. “I think you are possibly the only person in the world who knows that. Truly knows it.”

“I was there when they were born,” he nodded.

She put her bowl on her bedside table and turned to face him fully. “It’s not the only reason. And you know it.”

He had strange memories of their time together on that mountain. Memories of things she had said and done. But he had been on the brink of death: they were probably only dreams.

“What you did… Your Grace, I have no idea of how you did it, or what it means, but you need to exercise great caution -”

“I did nothing you would not have done for me. That you _were_ willing to do for me, in fact. You were prepared to burn. So was I.”

He felt some irritation that she seemed to be ignoring the point he was trying to make. “You shouldn’t -”

“Why not?”

Jorah floundered. He couldn’t believe what his heart was telling him. Could it really be? Was this another impossible thing that Daenerys could make real?

“I tried to tell you, before. It _is_ the same for me, Jorah. The same. Do you understand?”

“Khaleesi…”

“Please say my name.”

Jorah could not speak, could barely look at her, and felt like a complete fool for not being able to do so. It should not be easier to look upon an undead bear than to look the woman he loved in the eye. Gritting his teeth, as if it was an army of wights he was facing again, he met her gaze with his. 

He had sat himself within a respectful arm’s reach of her bed but it seemed too far for Daenerys. She took off the blanket and sheets covering her legs and swung them over the edge - a little too fast and she lurched forward. In an instant Jorah was on his knees and had caught her by her arms. He lifted her gently back onto the bed - before he had a chance to return to his chair, she had seized his face with her hands. Her skin was cool but her touch still burned him. 

Kneeling in front of her as he had done so often before, he saw that she couldn’t speak, either. If she had been able to, he might not have believed any of it. But the slight tremor of her fingers, the pleading in her eyes… He could believe that. He had felt that a thousand times in her presence.

Jorah kissed her. If he’d had a say over the matter, he would have chosen to be gentle, but there was no thinking left to him. Her mouth yielded to him instantly, completely; her hands abandoned his face and gripped the back of his head. Somehow they broke apart, just for a moment, but he could not let her go. Even though he had been afraid to touch the rest of her until then, his arms shot around her waist and pulled her off the bed and down onto his lap for another kiss.

The need for breath finally claimed them both. Foreheads resting together, chests heaving, they said nothing, although Daenerys’ lips were busy. She peppered Jorah’s face with kisses, her fingernails scraping the nape of his neck.

“Daenerys…” he half-croaked, half-growled, though hardly in protest.

She laughed, with relief more than merriment, and it was an utterly intoxicating sound. She drew back to look at him, biting her lip and looking now a little shy. Jorah wondered whether he had died and gone to one heaven or other. 

“Arise, Ser Jorah,” she said softly, leaning on his shoulders to steady herself as she stood from his lap and climbed back onto the bed. The invitation was clear.

_I’m already risen_ , he thought. It was his turn to feel uncertain.

The sound of footsteps outside her door, followed by the slide of steel on steel, made them turn from each other.

“Jon Snow, _Dāria Daenerys_ ,” a voice called out.

Daenerys’ eyes widened and Jorah realised he hadn’t had a chance to tell her that Jon had survived. Now he could only nod in confirmation. She sighed, then returned to her place under her covers.

“Would you mind, Jorah?” she asked.

He stood up and bowed. “My Queen.” 

The knowledge of where her eyes had strayed as he’d got up was the only reason he was able to spare a respectful greeting for Jon as he opened the door.

The young man stepped in and bowed in turn. “Your Grace, I am glad to see that you are recovering.”

“And I’m glad that we did not lose you. You were incredibly brave. And I think you may well have saved Drogon’s life as well as ours. You have my deepest gratitude.”

Jorah was standing behind Jon but even from there his discomfort was plain. It was no wonder his father had taken such a liking to him.

“We have received words from King’s Landing. Cersei Lannister will meet with us. We should let your men at Dragonstone know they should prepare for departure. If it pleases Your Grace.”

She looked to Jorah. He nodded. “Yes, I think it would be wise. I will write a message to Tyrion shortly.”

Jon bowed again and left.

When Jorah had shut the door again and turned back towards her, her expression was serious and disappointed. He ought to feel the same, but the truth was that she needed her rest, and there were things to discuss that could not wait long.

“We have much to discuss, haven’t we?” she said echoing his thoughts. He grinned at her and when she asked why, he could not readily say. “Perhaps I will rest a little longer first. You should probably rest, too.”

It was her turn to grin at the way his face fell. “Come,” she said, patting the space next to her. “Plenty of room here.”

Jorah removed his boots as quickly as he could and settled himself next to Daenerys, who snuggled into the crook of his arm with an ease that left him an awe. 

“This is more comfortable,” she murmured against his neck, “but the cave was more private.”

He chuckled. “We will have time, Khaleesi.” But he felt her still against him and when he glanced down at her, she looked worried. “What’s wrong?”

“It takes no time at all to die,” Daenerys said. “And I have wasted so much time already.”

Jorah rolled her over so he could look at her properly. “What do you mean?”

She tilted her chin up and he knew she wanted to kiss him. He bent down to meet her: it was a slow, leisurely kiss this time, lips giving way to tongues and sighs. When they parted, her eyes travelled all over his face, as though she was trying to commit something to memory, or understand some mystery.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you.”

His breath caught so suddenly that his ribs ached painfully where they had healed. He didn’t understand any of what had happened or was happening. Until he’d met Daenerys, his sense of faith had been grounded in what he could see: the cycles of seasons, life and death, night always followed by a new day. But she was proof of something else, even if he wasn’t sure what. That was the faith he needed now: to believe her, to believe he might be worthy of her. His years of exile, however, had taught him that he should be wary of things he desperately wanted. Or, rather, of getting the things he desperately wanted.

Daenerys was watching him, concern mounting in her eyes, and then she kissed him again, more heatedly this time. 

Perhaps he didn’t need a different kind of faith after all. Everything he needed to know and believe in was right there in his arms. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes, so Daenerys can conjure up fire now. PROVE TO ME THAT SHE CAN'T OR SHOULDN'T BE ABLE TO.* 
> 
> Written as a gift for fanoftheknight in answer to the prompt:
> 
> "I am a huge sucker for the hurt/comfort dynamic and so I would love a gift (of any medium apart from song lists) that covers this. I am happy for it to be an AU or set in GoT universe but would not be comfortable with anything but vanilla sex scenes (i.e. no explicit content please) and also no weird kinky sex either please.  
> While I am all up for some angst (and some Nurse!Dany) I would like the piece to have a happy ending (i.e. neither one of them dies)."
> 
> *Jk, pls don't - I like the idea too much. 
> 
> SUPER BIG THANK YOUS TO MormontLady FOR BETA READING AND MAKING THIS READABLE. Anything sucky that remains is my fault alone.


End file.
